my female cicada found way to lay eggs inside of my nasal cavity.. the larvae are pupating and ravishing in the inside of my frontal lobe. maddening me.
and a swarm swims out every time that i sneeze. and i ask them to please kill me with their disease. but they chew through my hyde (and who knew that id find the hard way that these family insects could tease til they torture the swallowed man, hollowed inside, empty wallowing, died) molested and nested piece of me rest in peace..
                         -they duplicate in 3's.

Hello, I hope to be your smile
I want to ease your cries
I want to hold and love you, darling
- There's beauty in your lies

Tell me your story
tell me your secrets
But not a sound from me
And if you want to hear my whisper
You'll wait on bended knee

I'll give you a piece of myself now, gorgeous
No, not my heart; you don't deserve it
You'll keep it close, you'll keep it safe
Now tell me you love me and make it perfect

Oh wait, you do?
No, that's not news
Not after "all I've done for you."

Your heart is mine!
I've won! It's time.
Just stand there and
I'll wave goodbye...

all these thoughts will be set in motion
in your eyes i see the ocean
on your lips i'll taste the sea
this is the life you've given me
in your hands i'll feel the earth
finally i'll understand my worth
that it was never meant for man
too many people can't understand
that it's about loving yourself first
only then will you quench the thirst
and find that burning desire
nights will burn away like fire
there's no point in feeling alone
once it's felt it's never gone
because we are all connected, so deep
the sound of trees will lull us to sleep
dreaming, wishing, it's now a duty
to find the hope, the faith in beauty
it always feels so fresh and new
every time i dance with you

How I missed, how I missed the wonder in your eyes
The smiles at our hellos, and the pouts at our goodbyes
How we kissed, how we kissed only heaven could have devised
The passion with the moon, and the beauty of sunrise

How I wish, how I wish on stars to make this bloom
The stars over your bed, and windows of your room
How we squish, how we swish the smell of your perfume
The blankets with the pillows, and the smile to resume

How it is, how it is will be left for fate to tell
The anxious of a call, and the sound of the bell
How it tis, how it tis will beyond me compel
The things I do, and do them well.
So please don’t give me hell,
Just answer your cell.

A basketball game is like a well conducted, beautifully written symphony. The tip off, a conductor raises his/her hands to motion the beginning of sound. As fingers reach for the orange ball and slam it in a favored direction, music takes flight and volume rises, the crowd roars as a basket is taken by the home team. Rapid pace movement of the squeaking shoes are multiple violin’s strings and bows at work, consistently changing and controlling the tune. The blare of the brass section, the scream of the fans come together in perfect unison, adding texture to the piece. The slam against the backboard, the bass drum sounds off, the dribble of the ball, a high hat’s tap-ity, tap, tap. Music is created in every pass, jump, shot, foul, score, and aspect of this game…from the smallest move to the loudest upset, from the softest flute to the biggest percussion instrument…music is present here and now.

he makes his rounds down by the 59th Street Bridge:
one leg bends, the other stays straight.
you can't miss him, he's darker than night‒
pasty white lips, coffee cup jingling,
and a fresh clean suit to really catch your eye.

"shit, look at that guy!"
I've heard people say.

he's been at it for years,
rattling that damn cup once the light
turns yellow.
it must be working,
there's always a different suit.
throw in rush hour and bridge cleaning  
and you know it falls like rain.

but one day I saw him walking along 31st Street,
pacing, hustling, both knees bent.
he moved better than I did,
dress shoes and all.
I pulled up and honked:

"feeling good today, huh buddy?"

pasty lips kept it at full stride,
rounding the corner with
no shame in his step.

it wasn't long before I got stuck at that light again.
of course, out came the hobble and the sound of loose change.
I believe the lady in front even handed him a bill.
and when he finally made it over to me,
the only thing I could do was grin.

a guy like that, you just have to
let him go.








from Dizzied By Chance: Poems of a Fringe Existence (2013)

This morning I left my winter coat hanging on the wall
and got out my Spring jacket,
put that on and left.
The doors of the train burst open
and as I stepped out I looked up
and saw the buildings like cliffs in the sky
hanging over me.

Restless later,
I looked out and saw
the sun fell in triangles and rectangles
on the walls and corners,
and they’re like dry rock pools, rough sand.

And I felt like I was in Mexico or Uruguay in the early 80s.
If there had just been moustachioed men,
girls in white jeans,
someone with a camera that clicks,
the sound of footsteps down an alleyway
as you notice the sky going dark.

Going home the trains packed and I’m right up against the doors.
Through the window and the fog I see the floating lights.
And every time we come to a station I have to curl back my arm
to press the button so people can get out.
And the evening city air comes in.

A southern blend of jasmine and magonolia waft across the grounds an in it is a mixture of tell
Tale knowing a little smoulder lies in her eyes it causes you to anticapate a well spoken word
First it has a different sound than the rest of the country it has a bluesy age to it like it has come
From the delta it took its on sweet time in doing so it is bold just with enough southen sass to
Keep you alert you can’t take for granted that which is explosive and vibrant you don’t live in
The rise and fall of such rich history and not carry a mystery and confidence that is allureing
Tressels and verandas build the tender mood of gentel beckoning that is adorded as seasoned
Fashion spell binding unabashed qaulity is seen in modest means that streams like blue bells that
Have been turned to liquid by charms power and it lays like a long lasy haze that reaches the
Far horizion with a sigh you stop and deeply meditate this creates strong thoughts that go out
From your inner self like a suden strong wind that list and goes where you no not but
refreshment Is left in its wake like an old winding road it not the arriving but the going that is
awsome it delivers Many sights like the night it holds wonders of compassion as an old man you
see in his eyes That knowing that shows care you feel a welcome embracing toucing you for
Dixie makes a Speacial brew it takes long long southern days and paitennce here is derived like
no other place you get that taste of grace speaking slowly it is a trait of the wise that came by
it not by racing To it but by a slow assurance that only grows when you give it time it gives life
a higher qaulity that Is rare in our modern world why would you take a speed boat when you can
go by paddle wheel and go to a place called Natchez eithier real or imagined gentel thoughts
invade and they are a gloroious parade with all sorts of colors and floats that portray geenteel
sentiments some of it is the feeling of loss that great and real times that held such sway are truly
gone with the wind bedeviled by a women she wears a oversized hat that frames her and in many
ways explains her the showing of a well spring of love to be bathed in her voice it trully is the
finding of that memory and grand glory of a true sothern bell walk softly in this spell created
over many treasured moments in southern rays and moonlight kissed by a protective certiny of
woman hood found in no other place cover me God in sothern primose dreams until I walk again
on the great southern soil

Who are these creatures I hear all about,
With a love and a care that is so devout,
Who can form a bond that will never fade out,
And will offer encouragement in times of doubt?

And what are these things that sound like me?
Our words seem similar when they decide to speak.
They have ears to hear, and eyes to see,
But do they have hopes and fears and dreams?

What is their purpose while living this life?
I've heard they spread joy, but only seen strife.
They can act like your brother, and then steal your wife,
and when suddenly provoked, most like to fight.

See, I've heard a lot of stories, about some good folks,
But I interpret them as blasphemy, lies, and jokes.
They could never be true, they must be a hoax,
'cause every tale ever told was as tall as an oak.

They all seem alike, they all seem so mean,
Are they the odd ones out, or would that be me?
I just want to live happy, and I want to live free,
But they seem to spark up, whenever I scream.

There's a certain pleasure they get, when they see you cringe,
They're on the edge of their seat, when your life hangs by a fringe.
They get a heart full of warmth, and a face full of grin,
Then they savor the moment, until they can seize it again.

To these fictional characters, I must commend,
They may seem helpful, but will hurt in the end.
Yet, I stay in search of one to defend,
The honor and duty of a lifelong friend.

Through a garden bedecked in the finest façade
In a natural beauty of eons compiled
An assault to the senses which quickens the pulse
Yet soothing the detail, organically styled

Its borders haphazard yet clearly defined
By a frenzied assortment of pollen clad blooms
Enhancing creation with lust and a craving
With nectar, ambrosia scented perfume

The thickets and bushes, with industry cloaked
A sprawling utopia thriving therein
With bees and with butterflies drinking their fill
And drizzled in webs which the spiderfolk spin

A meandering trail through flourishing life
An encouraging push from the sun to my rear
Entrancing, the chill of the dew underfoot
Yet thrusting itself like an ice laden spear

My sight is attracted by hidden desire
To a door at the crest of a flurry of stairs
And the stone of the flight is as fire to my soles
After languishing still as the midsummer glares

The door is ajar and within comes the sound
Of a single piano, adeptly caressed
Each note sends a shiver rebounding around me
In purity soaked and perfection possessed

I make my way forward and darkness inside
Removes me of sight as my pupils adjust
And the air is intense as a northerly breeze
And shimmers in motes cut of sunlight and dust

My eyes become clear and before me they see
Cascading and dancing a musical frieze
A picture in motion, a fairytale path
In a spectrum of tones and a myriad keys

Inspiration her name and the course she describes
Is a poem in light to beguile the mind
She speaks with her body, a wordless refrain
Of a mystery poets have clamoured to find

A pipe cuts a harmony no one could play
Distilling forever the passage of time
And though such a symphony draws at the tongue
Causality never once utters a rhyme

A pattern of shimmering images form
Behind inspiration and quickening pace
To fade with the music and ever be lost
Lest the pen of a poet can hold them in place

Most fickle of muses and teaser of tongues
To flirt with despair and to promise elation
We chase but remaining just out of out reach
Is the ghost of a girl which we call ‘Inspiration’